Oblivious Signals
by Scythers
Summary: Daisuke's dream has come true: a date with Hikari. But is it what he bargained for? (Daikari? Kensuke?) [*COMPLETE*] (Prologue takes place _after_ story; yes, it's weird. Apologies for epilogue weirdness, too.)
1. Prologue

* * *__

_  
Sometimes I must confess  
I do feel a little over dressed  
Sometimes it's hard to tell the wishing from the well  
Where you threw the penny and where it fell  
_ ( "Bleeders." The Wallflowers. )

  
* * *

  
Ichijouji.  
  
I thought I . . . I thought we . . .  
  
We were best friends, you jackass.  
  
How could you do that to me? How could you just plunge your hand right through my chest to clutch and claw at my heart . . . to rip it out and drop it to the ground, to step on it as though it were nothing . . .  
  
How!?  
  
Well, you bet your ass I'm going to find out. You're going to give me a fucking explanation whether you want to talk or not. I'm almost to your apartment complex. I'm _crying_, you moron . . . you made me cry.  
  
I'll make you cry. I'll . . . I'll, I don't know what. After all we've done together . . .  
  
I hate you. I hate you I hate you I hateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyou . . .  
  
. . . so why does it hurt this bad?


	2. Tasting The Rain

**Author's notes:** Wee. Well, this was quite an adventure on my part. This chapter was really fun to write, for one reason or another. As of now, there is/will be a prologue, three chapters, and an epilogue. Or just two chapters, in case I don't have as many whacky ideas as I had thought! Anyway, here's the first installment. I hope you continue reading when the other chapters eventually make their way out of my brain and onto paper, figuratively speaking.  
  
**Disclaimer:** Look at the one on my bio, naturally.

  
* * *  
  
**O B L I V I O U S S I G N A L S  
**chapter one  
  
* * *__

_  
At slow speed we all seem focused  
In motion we seem wrong  
In summer we can taste the rain  
I want you to be free  
Don't worry about me  
And just like the movies . . ._  
( "Movies." Alien Ant Farm. )

* * *

  
It really wasn't the strangest of days, after all. No "birds of midnight" stood on the open street, or perched on high with help of an unlit street-lamp -- no omens straight out of Julius Caesar or another tragedy by William Shakespeare to announce to coming of the ancients, the death of a prince, or the like. It was a casual day in Odaiba, a Saturday if it ever was to become more cliché. The skies were splashed with a lovely shade of azure and cotton-candy tufts of turtledove clouds swam across it, aided by a breath of warm summer wind.  
  
It wasn't at all strange for one particular youth to go soaring down the street, a man on a mission anyone could have joked, having sprinted for the last few minutes from wherever he had taken flight from. A dabble of sweat had condensed on the furrows of his brow, at home in the auburn ridges of skin, as his frame was canted forward only slightly as he went. A dog hurdled here, an old lady narrowly avoided there . . . and all with a lowly growl of annoyance or mutter of how rude this day's generation was. But he didn't care, not at all.  
  
Hands met with a sun-weathered bar of sardonyx metal that kept him from entering his place of conquest, and with a merry jingle of bells proclaiming his entrance, Motomiya Daisuke literally flew into the hole-in-the-wall fast food establishment. Startled patrons looked up from their greasy meals of French fries and hamburgers, only to find whatever it was that had barreled its way in gone in a faint breeze made visible by tumbling pale yellow hamburger wrappers.  
  
One particular booth was not surprised at all, however, and a couple of the persons that sat there actually winced when they heard such a clamor. The inevitable was coming, and they knew it. Even if they had been at peace with the raucous squeal of bells, all of them (except for the dark, quiet one at the far corner) jumped a foot in their seats as two curled fists slammed to the Formica coated tabletop. To accompany this fearsome sight, the braying of what could have been a dying giraffe fell atop the tremors that rocked the area.  
  
"Yes . . . _yes_ . . . **_YES_**!"  
  
"Yes what?" Takaishi Takeru queried blandly, warily recovering his bucket hat from where it had been spilled to the ground moments earlier. He shot Daisuke a disdainful look for interrupting whatever it was he had been doing, but the boy took no notice.  
  
"She said yes!" was all Daisuke could manage, nearly about to burst at the seams with the words that he just couldn't manage to push out of his mouth. He gripped the table so hard that if he happened to tighten his hold any further, the flesh of his hands would have turned chalk white. His angel, his dream, the beautiful and absolutely perfect Yagamii Hikari (soon to be Motomiya if Daisuke had his wish) had actually consented, had given _verbal consent_, to . . .  
  
Inoue Miyako clucked her tongue from Takeru's left; pulling a wedge of deep-fried potato out of her pale amethyst hair that had somehow wheedled its way in during all of the chaos. "Spit it out already, Daisuke! Who said yes? And to what?"  
  
"HIKARI-CHAN SAID SHE'D GO ON A DATE WITH ME!"  
  
Complete, total silence.  
  
Several minutes passed, or at least several seconds, mostly taken up by the gaping stares and/or loose jaws of his still-seated companions. Takeru, for one, looked like he was about to choke from swallowing his own tongue, and was only saved when Hida Iori, sitting in a transplanted seat at the head of the table, offered him the rest of his soda for emergency consumption. Miyako only gawked with the ungainliness of an estranged ostrich. The last member of the troupe, though, offered a truly kind, yet pained smile.  
  
The silent calamity finally began to undo itself, especially with the unblocking of air passageways and the unlocking of jaws from their down-turned state of being. Takeru was the first to recover fully, and from over the rim of Iori's drink, he looked absolutely bewildered. Hikari said yes? Takeru muttered warily. You can't be serious. Daisuke grinned; Caught her hook, line, and sinker. If I find out you drugged her, Daisuke, Takeru pressed on, glowering. What kind of a guy do you think I am? Daisuke said, lifting a brow. Their heated discussion went onward, their audience watching something not unlike a verbal tennis match.  
  
"Maybe _Daisuke _is the one dropping acid," Miyako sliced in at last, almost desperate for her own two cents worth, nudging Takeru as if to assure that at least someone heard her cutting remark while Daisuke continued his tirade in the background. She smirked coyly at Daisuke, who only responded otherwise by sticking his tongue out and tugging down on an eyelid.  
  
He would have continued his childish show of disgust had it not been for the tingle of warmth that began to spread through him, centered on the one wrist that was not engaged in any sort of activity. With a start, he identified the source as the few porcelain fingers that lay on his own dark skin, emanating such a feeling of . . . "That's wonderful, Daisuke," Ichijouji Ken spoke softly, last of all. His dusky tenor was almost lost in the relative din of the restaurant. "I always hoped that she would bring you happiness."  
  
Heart thudding painfully in his chest, Daisuke could not help but stare at the raven-haired Keeper of Kindness for what seemed like his own private eternity. Swallowing thickly past a sudden lump that had fixed itself in his throat, he failed to notice both the split-second's worth of acute pain in shimmery, beveled violet eyes and the passing heated indignation on his best friend's usually calm facade. He managed to flash Ken two rows of pearly whites, naturally stark on his face, in the company of dual thumbs up. It was then that the media-acclaimed prodigy returned back to what he had been doing prior to speaking, some sort of journal with pages literally soaked in ink from a black fountain pen that had scrawled zillions of alien formulae.  
  
Daisuke mused for a moment (or for him, it was simply a rusted cranking of his brain's gear-work one notch forward in decision) over the situation, before deciding that rather than spending all afternoon getting ready for his date with the lovely Yagamii that night, he could spare at least a few minutes with his friends. He concluded with pushing Ken over to the corner of his booth, who had been sitting alone coincidentally, and taking up the newest amount of space for himself. The others since engaged in their own conversation, and Ken engrossed in his strange calculations, Daisuke could only help but watch him slave stiffly over his notebook.  
  
On a whim of an afterthought, the Motomiya boisterously reached across the table to swipe a few fried potato pieces from Takeru's tray with little regret. Stuffing the greasy mess in his mouth before the conversing Takaishi may have noticed, Daisuke rid himself of any evidence with brushing his fingers on his denim vest, and finally resting his elbow casually on Ken's bony shoulder as if it had been there the entire time. Head canting slightly, he caught sight of what Ken was writing in his weird journal. Cinnamon and gold eyes squinted in befuddlement; the convoluted array of variables was enough to give him a headache from just _looking_!  
  
"So . . . what're you doing, Ken?" Daisuke asked flatly, attempting to _not_ sound stupid when dealing with his best friend's insanely high intelligence quotient. It wasn't that the said best friend thought him as being stupid so much as it was he didn't want Ken to ever decide that he, Daisuke, was too inferior to be friends _with_. It was hard to work out into coherent thought, as it always is when something is translated from pure emotion.  
  
Ken's eyes flickered upward, flames of puce caught in glassy orbs of darkness, a movement that was almost jerky in completion. Rather than staring at Miyako, who he sat opposite of, he focused on the chipping and smudged lime green tabletop just in front of her resting forearms. A slender sapphire brow twitched slightly, not out of agitation, but rather how it always did when he was thinking -- Daisuke had nearly memorized Ken by heart, mind you -- and finally, his eyes turned left to the said Chosen. This was a much more controlled, cautious shift, before his entire head rotated in that direction.  
  
The genius replied modestly enough, voice still not elevated any higher than it had been moments before. Daisuke had to strain just slightly to hear him. "I merely had a thought," was all that was said, even though that certain thought took up a number of once clean pages. The protected reserve in Ken's dark eyes was enough to prompt more silent question from the Motomiya by way of a brow lifting, although he was met with no further response.  
  
"Right, right. It figures, Ichijouji," Daisuke mumbled in disappointment, casting his probing gaze away from his ambiguous best friend. Both eyes and one outstretched hand settled on another growth of fried treats protruding from a container on Takeru's tray, scooping and grasping for the maximum amount before withdrawing it all back to an awaiting mouth. Takeru noticed this commandeering of his meal, and reprimanded the thief accordingly. Daisuke ignored it, naturally. "Only _you _would do homework on a Saturday," he additionally supplied, licking his salty fingers and continuing to use Ken as his personal elbow-rest.  
  
"Ichijouji" shrugged nonchalantly, apparently letting the commentary slide off his back with a manner not unlike water slithering off the downy feathers of a mallard. This action did not prevent him from continuing whatever it was he was figuring, and thus only left Daisuke to watch in awe (being envious of Ken was beyond him, and always would be). Ken took notice to neither his one-person audience nor the stultiloquence of the others across the table, his computations top priority it would seem.  
  
Faceless seconds melted into identifiable minutes, all ebbing steadily away down the finite flow of time for the Chosen of a Digimental triad. Unwittingly, Daisuke lost all sense and track of time as he persisted with his strange obstinateness of watching Ken and his outwardly exhaustive work and talent with his mind and pen. The only climax of that entire duration was when Ken -- having spent an unknown span scrutinizing, crossing out, and rewriting his work all over again -- allowed a graceful three-sixty degree circle to be drawn, centered on one particular result. Evidently suited with that designated eventuality, he actually creased the stale perforation around one edge of that particular page with tapered blanch fingers. A constant use of pressure in the direction of his body let him tear out the piece of inky paper; he pocketed the item after folding it into a meek little square of black and white, hidden then somewhere in the depths of his grayscale school uniform.  
  
There were a few strange things in that lackluster show that Daisuke happened to pick up on with an air of suspicion. First of all, if you had _known_ Ken -- and Daisuke _knew _him, considering he prided himself upon being closer to the Ichijouji than anyone else, save Wormmon -- then you would know that he never let any sort of loose papers go willingly, being as primped and organized as he was. Secondly . . . well, it wasn't so odd when Daisuke thought for a moment. Ken _always _wore that uniform, or a rendition not unlike it, with an exception being only a sweater when it was chilly outside and his soccer team's dress.  
  
Daisuke realized he had spent quite some time pondering over the irksome things his best friend did (that had the ability to drive him half up the wall in turmoil, no less), and a brief glance toward the fast food dwelling's wall clock confirmed that thought. Removing his elbow from Ken's milk-warm shoulder left him with the most inexplicable, yet fleeting sensation of intense rue. He was caught off-guard for a few moments, although it all soon passed as he continued sliding along the much cooler plastic seat toward where he could finally stand.  
  
"Well, I guess . . ." murmured Daisuke, moreso for his benefit than anyone else's, unable to bring his polished brown eyes upward for those few words. At last, he steeled himself, and cast one exclusive final look at Ken, whose pale cornsilk eyes clashed with his natural self-appeasement. The child prodigy was watching him like a fierce sapphire hawk, so _intently _. . .  
  
_His eyes are beautiful._  
  
Daisuke's heart flopped over with such a loud clang that he was sure the others would have heard it in its internal cacophony. However, their own eyes were only drawn to him when he continued further: "I guess I should go get ready for my date with Hikari-chan."  
  
The words almost seemed sour on his tongue. And forced. He bit lightly on it afterward, rocking back unwittingly on his heels with an ounce of nervousness, its origin unknown, leaking into his system. Maybe it was Ken's eyes that had disarmed him. There was that glib sort of secrecy in his best friend's normal vigil that intrigued him, considering he was yet to master understanding its underlying motive.  
  
All in the breadth of a second he had seen _it_, _it_ being just enough to put him on an edge of queasy unease -- in those twinkling magenta eyes, there had been _something _flickering behind their external protective coating. This said coating was not unlike ice in some respects, keeping out those who would like to get to know the genius better. Essentially, Ken found trustworthy persons next to none . . . and so this was a barricade against "intruders." Daisuke, however, had earned the key to chipping off some of the frozen zeal, but obviously had not punched through entirely. Yet.  
  
It was unnerving sometimes, considering if at any point Daisuke tried to search again for that exotic wavering flame of emotion, he would only find the black restraints that Ken usually watched from afar with. It was as if the windows to his soul had be slammed shut and the sash pulled down, the meager candlelight from within having been extinguished with the icy caress of a harvest moon's wind, haunting the byword-room in only ebony outlines of the original _whatever-it-was_ --  
  
"Daisuke, you _do_ realize it's only one in the afternoon, right?"  
  
His painful mental processing was cut short when a certain Takaishi's tart voice sliced through any epiphanies he was about to undertake (to some extent, at least). Daisuke glared bitterly at Takeru, tongue pressing fiercely against the roof of his mouth to prevent him from making an equally as biting remark before he could shoehorn it through his brain. After pausing over the words for a moment, he responded _almost _respectfully. There was the vague worry that Takeru may take to stalking Hikari and him all evening, just to ruin it . . .  
  
"That's none of your business!" (There was the spite.) "But . . . it'll be in only a few hours." (The resolve and tapping of fingertips together.) "I want to impress her. So I'm gonna' dress sharp, buy a lot of funny-smelling flowers . . . y'know, that whole dating ritual thing." (A slight move for boldness; the clenching of his unwieldy fist in front of Takeru's face.)  
  
"That is _so _romantic, Daisuke!" Miyako squealed. Yes, squealed -- a gruesome hybrid of jagged nails being raked down a chalkboard and helium being let squeakily out of a filled balloon. "I didn't think you had a single romantic bone in your body!"  
  
"Nyah. You're jus' jealous I'm finally getting the girl of my dreams while you sulk in the single life, chasing down boys you can never get." Daisuke shot a look at Ken there, as if to emphasize the point. He was startled when he saw Ken looking so . . . subdued.  
  
"Whatever, you goggle-wearing toad," Miyako mumbled, irritated extensively by that point. She drummed fine fingertips on the tabletop, eyes piercing him with that feral quality some more volatile young women were known to have. "Don't you have a date to get ready for, hm?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah. I didn't forget. I'll see you guys later!" Daisuke called, already moving toward the doorway that would lead him out of the hellish environment of sizzling hamburgers and vats of boiling grease. Fresh air was within his reach, but first he had to finish off with a grin and arrogant remark (that was Motomiya Daisuke in essence). "Wish me luck!"  
  
"Break a leg!" Iori called, finally speaking directly to the Motomiya rather than in snickers with Takeru while he was busy observing the Ichijouji.  
  
"Literally!" Miyako added, laughing.  
  
"Daisuke?"  
  
A lightning-fast hand had grabbed his wrist as he turned away from the group, with that same addictive warmth that had permeated from such a similar touch earlier. Gulping down the revenge of the lump in his throat, he turned his head over his shoulder, hoisting his sienna brows almost guiltily. "Aa?"  
  
"Give her my regards."  
  
"All right, Ken."


	3. Please Be Mine

**Author's notes:** I finally got it finished! I'm very proud of myself, actually .. I was struggling with it for a few days, writing only a meager sentence or two. But here it is! I apologize if there are any glaring mistakes, though .. it's very late at night as I'm uploading this, so I'll just fix 'em if I see any later. Thanks for coming this far with me! A few actual notes, though: "_doki_" is the sound effect for a heartbeat (at least from what I know), and the li'l portion toward the end (you'll know it when you see it) is a flashback. Scary. Still expect a third chapter and epilogue, though! And don't forget to go read what has been finished with "Fragile Wonderland," by MnM!  
  
**Disclaimer: **You know the drill.

  
* * *  
  
**O B L I V I O U S S I G N A L S  
**chapter two  
  
* * *

  
_It could be my mind  
That's got me all choked up inside  
But of all those feelings I hide  
And I start thinking  
And I start believing, yeah  
We could share our time, that means  
Nothing if you aren't mine, and then  
I knew you cared about me  
'Cause people love to be loved too_  
( "Could I've Been." Course of Nature. )

* * *

  
It was actually quite uncanny.  
  
Despite popular belief, Motomiya Daisuke's ego could only be classified as a _facade_. His attitude was a fake in a lot of respects when in the company of most others. The supposedly sensible and logical share of his maladjusted mind decreed that if the others cared to make fun of him when he acted strong at heart . . . it was easy to imagine how delighted they would be when they found he was actually not so sturdy as they once thought.  
  
So tonight was uncanny. Daisuke was actually _proud_ -- not the type of pride that spawned from his outrageously outspoken second face, either. He had gone to great lengths to secure that his Hikari-chan would have the most enjoyable experience on their date possible.  
  
. . . of course, she didn't know about the "true" him either. Only one person did.  
  
Daisuke's exaggerated grin faded into a gently confused frown. It wasn't the first or only time that such a line of thought had weaseled its way into the overblown humors he had of one particular Yagamii girl. Tonight was no exception for thinking like _that_ . . . no matter how hard Daisuke wished that he could enjoy a little peace and quiet, his subconscious kept conjuring up images of pale eyes alight with carefully discreet pain or the memory of the immense comfort and warmth the eye-bearer's touch could bring.  
  
Daisuke looked at himself in the mirror for a long time. He wasn't studying his attirement. This time, rather, there was a rather peculiar sort of self-examination he remained engaged in . . . a type of psychoanalysis that those who knew him would think was too boring for his short-fused concentration to focus on.  
  
His falsities were lying on the dresser, waiting to be put on.  
  
He was Loud. That much was for certain. His friends had been known to complain of tension headaches from the decibels that he opted to spurt at the most inconvenient of times. For example, it occurred during the lackadaisical part of a movie ("Jeez, can't they just skip all of this stuff and get to the action scenes?!"), then right on up to the eventual climax ("ALL RIIIIIGHT!!"). No one had ever cantered to taking Daisuke to a symphony concert, and their reasons were all lined up and at ready.  
  
He was Childish. Maturity wasn't even in his vocabulary. To even ask him to carry out some simple task that required the intelligence quotient of a pet rock would be suicide for whatever it was that needed accomplished_ (two birds fall, as does one stone: Stupidity)_. It really wasn't that his deficit was due to some sort of inherited mental disorder, anyhow. Procrastination was a plague to most entering their later years . . . Daisuke was just perhaps, in that manner and that manner only, much quicker on the uptake _(a third bird finds itself in a twisted mess of broken downy and leaking red: Obliviousness)_.  
  
Daisuke frowned deeper, unable to continue with his inner monologue of self-doubt and reproving. The concepts of others about himself and his many faults were of his own doing, his own stupid mistake if there ever was one; but,that still didn't keep him from continuing to be at least slightly acrid about it. There was a difference between cold fact and urban legend. No one had bothered to pick apart the roots. Except for the loophole.  
  
And mind you, it wasn't like all of this had come easily. Taichi, _the _Yagamii Taichi (big brother to Hikari), had also played a very important role. Who was one to keep an idol without a _little _assimilation of their behavior and personality? Taichi was brave, strong, and dependable, even a little rash at times, but still had a good, solid head on his shoulders. And everyone positively _adored _him . . . was it as blasphemous as the others made it seem for he to have handed Daisuke those sacrosanct goggles? Daisuke really would have liked to know.  
  
Sighing inwardly, the Motomiya child again turned a more critical eye toward his apparel. His clothes may have been what had taken him the longest, considering it wasn't that such a refined ensemble of lady-killer goods simply sprang out his closet whenever he willed them to. An artful craftsmanship had gone into the decor; rummaging about the blackhole of his closet and under his bed (the drawers on a nearby varnished pine bureau were rarely put to use) merited few rewards. It was only the cautious gall to sneak and snoop about his parent's bedroom that gave him what more he needed . . . luckily Jun had been too preoccupied by the blaring of her radio with the latest hit from Yamato's band to have spotted his dire impromptu mission. To be caught by the archenemy and thus reported to the parental units would have procured a very large dent in his plans.  
  
Dusty cinnamon had been pressed into the name-brand khaki slacks he donned, accentuated only by the dark lignite belt that wound its way about his relatively slim frame. The creases from a recent ironing were still fresh, as was the lush "afterwarmth" that came from a piece of clothing right out of the dryer -- precious heat contained in woven fibers that only lasted for an uncalculated span before returning to an undeclared room temperature. Regardless, the color remotely resembled that of his otherworldly costume, although these pants lacked the extraneous grass stains and dirt smears that his digital shorts developed. A stiff ebony shirt, specifically collared with the sleeves long and cuffed, was tucked inward conscientiously at the waist, and was also around made of some sort of cotton material. Nondescript shoes, hands bare, goggles purposefully absent . . .  
  
Daisuke elicited another threadbare grin, teeth pure against the darker pigmentation of his skin. To compliment the exhaustive detail he worked into his stylish-yet-casual wardrobe, his personal appearance was yet to be forgotten. The magenta-auburn of his hair had always been naturally rugged and spiky, and tonight there was no end to how pointed those tips could become if a little overpriced hair gel was put to use. There wasn't much he could have done about his eyes, of course, but he was rather hubristic of the coincidental sparkle of gold that laced the muddy brown depths.  
  
He gingerly slipped on his soul's happy-go-lucky guise, last of all.  
  
"Hikari-chan'll be drooling all over me," he told himself with aplomb that had been unmistakably nonexistent beforehand. Simultaneously cracking his knuckles and glancing over a hastily scrawled list at his side, he spent a few moments assuring that all game-day plan elements had been taken care of for the most part.  
  
The entitled paper of "Things To Do To Make Hikari-chan Happy" was actually rather short in comparison to all that he seemed to be doing, but nevertheless he was convinced it was his key to winning the girl over. His -- Jun's actually, as she was still star-struck over Yamato and legally mindless -- stereotypical girl magazines proclaimed that subtle romance was The Way toward the highest rating on the "Hot Guy" scale. There were several suggestions that had been listed, but certain constraints (a small weekly allowance could only go so far) limited his choices. There were a few essentials he wouldn't let himself go without, though.  
  
Just as he had promised nonchalantly that afternoon, those "funny smelling flowers" were almost number one in his deck of priorities. He spent quite a few minutes puzzling over what color to get his beloved (it was obvious he picked roses out of the selection), considering a vast variety would be placed before him whenever he got to the store. It was only after revoking the hazy memory of Ken's verbose explanation on flora and the significance of their shades (he had been struggling in Biology at the time and Ken had opted to be his tutor) that he reached a conclusion.  
  
While crimson may have represented the obligatory statement of "true love," his Hikari-chan's favorite color was undoubtedly pink. A species of rose had been cultured through exclusive crossbreeding to produce a marbleized rendition of both tints; luckily for Daisuke, the local flower shop carried such a hybrid.  
  
Slipping on a jacket that was meant to stave off any ill weather that would cause him discomfort on that special night, Daisuke chuckled at how sensational everything had progressed so far. He granted an unheard good-bye to his sister as he loped down the stairs . . . and at the bottom, a softer, more embarrassed one to his admonishing parents before heading out the door.

* * *

"All right, here I go." There was a definite pause. There was not a mote of movement. "Come on, Daisuke . . . you can do this." Still only quietude as the bouquet-clutching youth tightened his grip in the slightest on the viridian-stalked roses. Wetting his lips in resolution, his strangely arid voice again lifted from the depths of his throat. "Your one and only true love is waiting for you. What are you stalling for? You'll sweep her off her feet!" Again his encouragement was meant with inescapable stage-fright. "This is just silly --"  
  
"Hello, Daisuke."  
  
The said boy nearly jumping out of his own skin had been a direct result of his failing to notice one particular door had gone ajar. During his ad-lib rambling, the portal -- upon which a brass plate embossed with "Yagamii" had been stamped -- had slid open to reveal a sliver of that apartment's interior. The voice that had so startled him came from behind that wall of faux pine. Daisuke noticed its high tone was kept company only by an unrealistically static azure eyeball peering through the crack, surrounded in snow white.  
  
The boy scowled at Tailmon, relaxing somewhat. "Hey. Where's Hikari-chan?"  
  
"She's in her room, still getting ready. But I _guess _you're welcome to come in and wait," the feline drawled while that single optical unit lightened a few shades with mirth, "even if I'd rather see you have to stay outside. Both her brother and her parents aren't here (she didn't want them seeing her going on a date with _you_), and Agumon is probably napping. Just don't make a lot of noise."  
  
He was disappointed somewhere in the corner of his emotional state -- after all, he had no parents present to impress and who would therefore chirk Hikari toward dating him steadily in the future. That had been his foolproof backup plan, if by some chance tonight the girl of his dreams was not destined to end up falling under his spell for the rest of eternity. Giving an overly dramatic sigh of discontent, Daisuke amiably shuffled into the apartment much to the chagrin of Tailmon, who shut the door soon after.  
  
"She's down the hall, on the left," the feral digital partner supplied impassively, wandering over to the couch where she had been dining on a bowl of popcorn and watching some sort of aged black and white film.  
  
"Yeah . . . thanks," muttered Daisuke, setting his sights on the near-at-hand destination. His steps carried him a bantam length of hallway that separated him from his potential soul-mate, while a dappled rainbow of butterflies found that clog-dancing in his stomach was very amusing. He stopped short of reaching the threshold of the door he noted as being shut tight, his observation having caught the glimmer of something out of the corner of his eye.  
  
Turning his head, Daisuke was then face to face with a mirror. Its architecture was quite elaborate and grandiose for the otherwise modest homestead (spotted with only a few pictures here and there of the Yagamii family and some freshly cut flowers on corner tables), its detailed edges made up of a lukewarm gold that was pleasant on the eyes. More interested in the lustrous silver sheen than the perimeter, he squinted at his reflection, scrutinizing every detail possible . . .  
  
The dawning of relief in mahogany eyes.  
  
No cracks in the mask.  
  
The dawning of arrogance in mahogany eyes.  
  
His attention again strayed in characteristic fashion toward the cavity where his Hikari-chan was undoubtedly primping and preening herself into the ethereal angel he always knew her to be. Instinctual glee prompted him to "surprise" her by entering unannounced . . . but the ubiquitous warning posted by his common sense dictated otherwise. Doing so would, essentially, result in one _immensely _unhappy Hikari-chan.  
  
A little harmless eavesdropping, however, his sensibility had no qualms about. Inching closer to the door with the discreetness of a shadow-cloaked ninja, Daisuke cautiously pressed one ear against the surface. While sticking out his tongue and squinting one eye to hopefully (but illogically) help amplify any sounds passing through the wood, the Motomiya boy also bolstered both head and shoulder against the frame, his farthest foot lifted slightly in the air.  
  
A voice! _ A-ha_, the sly Daisuke thought, for perhaps he would hear his Hikari-chan twitter away to herself about how wonderful he was. The media between the ear and the room's interior blotted out the usually acute articulation of the words. Needless to say, the listener was frustrated. However, various other sounds were more distinct, like the wooden clatter of cabinets opening and closing in a seemingly frantic search for some absent item. The raucous noise continued for what seemed like an eternity to the poor boy, who cast a despondent look toward the cat-faced, tail-swinging clock that grinned mockingly at him from the adjacent wall.  
  
"Girls take soooo long," Daisuke whined inwardly, attempting to make the feline timepiece burst into flames with his wrathful glare.  
  
After a moment of musing, his glower gave way to a smirk when he recalled the scramble his sister always went through before _her _Saturday night dates (read: "ritualistic stalking of Ishida Yamato under the cover of darkness"). Be that as it may, Daisuke was beginning to find himself more exasperated with each bang and clang and mumbling he picked up.  
  
He cleared his throat with an unparalleled sophistication, as though his following words were going to go directly to a national assembly that had been thrown together for him. Frowning importantly after retracting his ear from the wood, his knuckles lightly rapped and tapped on Hikari's door.  
  
"Hikari-chan," Daisuke called, beckoning in his most suave voice (Tailmon could be heard complaining from the next room), "your great protector, your knight in shining armor, your fearless prince . . ."  
  
A pause, for effect.  
  
". . . I am here!"  
  
As he began to congratulate himself on how smooth he was (Tailmon had flung a throw pillow at him out of detestation, but he disregarded that), he also noted faintly that _all_ sound had ceased from within the room. Concerned that his voice may have caused the occupants to instantaneously perish from its sultry timbre, Daisuke again sidled up beside the door. His momentary reverie was cut short when a forlorn yelp of ire assaulted his hearing, lancing right through the impulsive quiet, and was only worsened when a hasty _slam _of a window followed. Perplexed, and rubbing at his ringing ear, Daisuke could detect that even as the pane of glass clinked merrily in its framework, a soft patter of footsteps was heading towards him.  
  
Realization hit him like a falling sack of bricks from five stories up. His Hikari-chan was getting ready to open the door! And here he was, all but peeping through the keyhole for a chance to spy on her -- what would she_ think_? Gathering himself agilely, with as much dignity as he could manage, Daisuke retreated a few steps to a respectable distance away. Rearranging the roses he had been holding the entire time, he took a deep breath. It was do or die.  
  
_She has to like me, she just has to . . . this has got to be perfect --  
  
_The door opened. And Daisuke's mental process ground to a halt in mid-thought.  
  
_(dokidoki)  
  
_Virginal white had always been the shade that had best defined the parameters of her soul. Any predisposed fancy of a heavenly aurora marking her body as it did her anima were one of many, and right then and there, with the customary and humble clothes of the norm discarded if for only one night . . . such velleities were implemented.  
  
_(dokidokidoki)_  
  
Spaghetti straps were braided about one another, and furthermore crisscrossed in an intricate pattern over milky shoulders; all the same, modesty called for tantalizing flesh to be revealed only to a particular level, or in this case, to a sloping area just beneath her collarbone's lowest point. From there, purity reigned in albata, marred only by the silvery-red motif of an angel-winged heart. Midriff was another exception for the hour, as was further demonstrated by the top's sheer cutoff at the bottom of her ribcage.  
  
_She's . . ._  
  
After a heart-stopping bout of more untainted skin, slight curves were accented in the white jeans that hugged her hips closely. Flaring slightly at the knees, the denim went through cascades of dissolving color . . . light pink eked from ivory, then deepened until murky ruby overtook the legs' cuffs. Opaque sandals encased lily feet, studded with opal clasps on their respective sides. Petunia-painted nails brushed considerately through the clean brunette silk that hung down to her chin, a side of it drawn upward like a tableau curtain with a barrette of glittery diamonds.  
  
_(doki)_  
  
Eyes of a watery garnet and maple combination cautiously met with Daisuke's. Charcoal eyeliner was apparent but not heavy . . . only providing a depth that made what hues it bordered richer than before. Lashes quivered in the aftermath of one blink, roseate lips parting . . . and Hikari smiled at him, tentatively.  
  
_She's . . . amazing._  
  
Suffice to say, Ken's eyes had nothing on her.

* * *

  
_Moonlight. Streamers of chaste undeflowered light cast bands of illumination over the pair standing inconspicuously beside one another, bodies nearly touching. A precautionary rise of concrete and metal prevents either of the two from descending to an early, unwanted death in the wine-dark river they overlook . . . one they both know well. It is the end of their journey.  
  
The fiery one, now tamed and exposed beneath the owl-light, scrunches his brow in earnest. Fingers wrap around the cold railing that keeps him safe, feeling a bite from the frost that always descends on Odaiba during the winter, feeling a bite from his harsh reality.  
  
His voice is extremely soft when it comes, quivering with a vulnerability he never thought anyone could bring out of him. His mouth is full of cotton, and it is freezing, but he is sweating in his clothes. "Ken?"  
  
His opposite, the icy one fair of face, lifts pale violet eyes in his direction. Digits drab in twilight tuck rouge strands of inky satin behind a flawless ear, while their possessor offers a genuine smile.  
  
"Yes, Daisuke?"  
  
(Two hearts beating as one . . .)  
  
"I . . ."  
  
Ken smiles, waiting patiently. His eyes are luminous and warm. Inviting.  
  
(And he's so close . . .)  
  
". . . it's nothing, Ken. Nevermind."  
  
(. . . but is he close enough?)_


	4. Place In The Sun

**Author's notes:** Wow. This is a very, very long chapter. I really hadn't been expecting it to be this long at all. I just have a few things to say: my apologies to Chaim Potok and Stephen King. Anyway, even though this chapter is LONG, there will be a fourth chapter (it'll be very short) as well as an epilogue. Thanks for reading! Please review!

**Disclaimer:** Blahblahblah.

  
* * *  
  
**O B L I V I O U S S I G N A L S  
**chapter three  
  
* * *

_Dancing with the wall made you bitter and sweet  
There ain't much you can do when they just lay it at your feet  
But you could tell by the song I wanted to be the one  
Did you listen again when the damage was done  
__Now the paint's still wet in your do-it-by-number dream  
Are you gonna' tell me how it felt, will you tell me what it means  
Go on and close your eyes go on imagine me there  
She's got similar features with longer hair  
And if that's what it takes to get you through  
Go on and close your eyes it shouldn't bother you  
_( "Similar Features." Melissa Etheridge. )

  
* * *

  
"I can't believe you actually brought me_ here_ . . ."  
  
Astonished timbre was dipped in a succulent sugarcoating, while appreciative glances of molasses wildly ricocheted after the facets of the surrounding environment. Those gold-streaked denizens stalled in their aimless wandering when lighting upon the absolutely incandescent visage that otherwise only invaded the very edge of vision . . . Daisuke's lips were split apart into almost sore proportions with his uncontrollable smile. How proud he was of himself; incidentally, such glory radiated off of him in nearly visible waves.  
  
"I wasn't able to book the _fanciest _place, Hikari-chan," Daisuke mumbled over the first of his response, attempting to justify exactly why they stood _there_. The locale: bathed in the iridescence of neon lights made of curvaceous glass kanji filled with ignited argon, wholly spelling out the name of a particularly upscale restaurant. It was not straitlaced enough to require formal garb, but the food was really pricey -- even if it _was _good. ". . . I just did the next best thing. I guess. Or tried to."  
  
Hikari smiled prettily as Daisuke grew more and more flustered, seraphic features accented with a golden halo of light from that previously mentioned sign. The night air was laced with the delicious scent of what was being prepared within, and even from their vigil on the chipped sidewalk, the lilting strains of a violin could be heard through the din of bystanders filtering around them. Inhaling the aroma, Hikari couldn't occlude a relieved sigh, even as Daisuke continued his explanations in a jittery tone.  
  
The passing breeze bid an unwelcome approach of winter, although that was still very far-off as they stood near to one another beneath the clear, flawless onyx sky; still only decades away as they shared the remaining summer if for a few moments.  
  
"It's okay," Hikari breathed at last, stopping Daisuke from further description of how he spent an hour trying to bargain his way into the ritziest restaurant in Tokyo. There was an unmistakable quiet in her voice as she went on, one bare hand resting on Daisuke's arm. "It's more than okay, actually . . . it's great. But how did you ever come up with the money to make a reservation _here_?"  
  
Daisuke had to let his brain catch up with the fact his Hikari-chan thought that his choice for the evening's dining endeavors was great (not _okay_, not _so-so_, but _great_). Feeling encouraged by her words, one arm wove its way about her slim waist with an air of nonchalance . . . not at all shocked when he felt her stiffen slightly. "Hikari-chan," Daisuke chided into her ear, grin again threatening to conquer his entire face, "now you're beginning to sound like Ichijouji."  
  
Hikari tensed further at the simile, which Daisuke quickly attributed to how his warm spearmint-scented breath tickled the shell of her pale ear. He was pleased on some level with mildly riling her, even though her voice betrayed nothing other than a casual curiosity and uninvited concern: "Why do you say that?"  
  
"One time he got 'rilly angry with me when I bought about a dozen pizzas, because he thought -- Ken's weird like that, you know, always thinking -- that we didn't have enough money to pay the delivery boy and we'd get in trouble. He doesn't even _like _pizza, which is just crazy besides, so I didn't know what his problem was," Daisuke sniffed irately, letting the pleasantness of Hikari's unknown shampoo (it smelled a little like the roses he had bought her) soothe him. He looked almost wistful afterward, as though caught in an all-too-real memory. "But man, was _he _surprised when he found out I had Jun's credit card . . ."  
  
"I see," Hikari replied lamely after a second of silence, allowing herself relax somewhat -- even with Daisuke's arm remaining possessively around her. Seeming not to mind the closeness as much as she had moments earlier, she again piqued her voice with demure question. "So what did you do _this _time? Rob a bank with Veemon?"  
  
Her counterpart's simper was positively bestial. "Of course not, what kind of guy do you think I am? . . . I just pawned Jun's tickets to the next Teenage Wolves concert!"  
  
Nettled by Daisuke's morally wrong and parasitic advantage (even ifshe_ was _flattered he had risked life and limb for her sake), Hikari only expressed scorn in how deftly she escaped his encompassing arm. With a flinch, the enterprising youth began after her, slipping clumsily past the milling pedestrians that she herself seemed to bypass without effort. Her gracefulness was downright irritating at times, Daisuke stored absently -- he was thus confronted with the supplicating of furtive muscles, concealed, at least partially, in shades of breathable green material. A soccer ball chased elusive violet jewel-points through his mind's eye._  
  
_Even as the whirlwind of imagery faded into his subconscious, Daisuke still dismissively wiped the slate of his mind clean. Not even missing a beat throughout the process of muse and visual schism, he approached and quickly passed his Hikari-chan, if only to open the door of the restaurant for her in a gentleman-like practice. She smiled graciously at him as she passed; his heart soared.  
  
Daisuke nearly ran directly into her when he entered the foyer, considering his princess had failed to actually continue further into the establishment than a scant number of inches. Her unbroken complexion was lit in a soft shade of azure from light fixtures of blue-tinted halogen bulbs. This color was easy on the eyes, while virtually bathing the entire front entryway. The room generally very industrial looking -- panels that would normally keep pipes and electrical outfitting in the ceiling out of view had been fashionably forgotten. The sharp metallic twinge only heightened the effect of pallid sapphire on the combination of wood and metal, on their edges and curves. A row of free-hanging lights carved a pathway of white into the otherwise aquamarine floor, leading the both of them to a modest reception area.  
  
"Hikari-chan, I'm cold! Want to warm me up?"  
  
"That's the light making it _seem _cold, Daisuke-kun. It's just a trick of your mind."  
  
Hikari walked automatically at Daisuke's side, otherwise wrapped up in the room's decoration, while her date's arm inconspicuously wrapped around her waist. The man that received them looked stuffy and out of place with his completely black tuxedo and especially dark features, engaged in flipping sullenly through the pages of a leather-bound book resting atop a podium. Presuming this was where reservations were verified, Daisuke took the initiative and presented himself, clearing his throat.  
  
"Your name?" the employee muttered, movement suddenly ceasing. His eyes, however, abysmally deep, flickered upward toward the couple. A current of discomfort passed through the boy.  
  
"Motomiya," Daisuke said, before hastily adding on. "Motomiya Daisuke."  
  
"Shaken, not stirred," Hikari quipped softly, from somewhere by his flank.  
  
"Party of two?" Those eyes were like looking into two black-holes, Daisuke thought.  
  
"Yeah," he responded, shifting around inside his clothes. The man regarded the both of them with an unvarying scrutiny . . . as though he was disbelieving that they had a reservation. One particular page of the tome proved otherwise, though, proven by a rigid finger set beneath a line -- _'Motomiya: 2'_ -- scrawled in a slightly rushed handwriting. Spying this, Daisuke felt somewhat empowered, his voice a bit more insistent. "See? We _do _have a reservation, so if you'd kindly let us --"  
  
"Your hostess will be with you shortly to show you to your table," the man interrupted noncommittally, returning to his lazy page-turning. He gave no indication that he had heard the cheeky boy speaking.  
  
His feathers ruffled, Daisuke elected to turn back to Hikari with an apologetic smile. She shrugged her shoulders, silent in her rationale that it didn't quite matter if they were seated in five seconds or five minutes. Daisuke's nervousness lessened.  
  
A few minutes later, as the pair exchanged in a conversation that had no words, they were abruptly startled by the appearance of a maniacally grinning woman. Unlike her counterpart of melancholy countenance, she was quite the opposite. Her tresses were a color almost exact in nature to the hues that flooded to the room, soft and cool and foamy, sporting hundreds of tiny ringlets, all fettered by a hair-tie that settled near the nape of her neck. Her eyes were quite unnatural -- an electric cobalt, almost sparking with energy. Her skin, however, was an intense shade of white that stood out so surprisingly in the room, as though having been over-caked with deathly make-up. Her strapless dress matched her hair perfectly, azure and lively, and had been stretched (literally, considering it was a shiny plastic material) to mid-thigh; whitened lips were still crazed.  
  
"Hi! My name is Ayumi! Please follow me!"  
  
"Huh?" was Daisuke's articulate reply.  
  
He became tense and worried by this strange behavior soon after -- wondering whether or not this was just their waitress, or someone who had escaped from the nearest insane asylum, and had custom-tailored their straitjacket. Hikari, on the other hand, looked . . . _amused_? He would have asked her what the big idea was had their presumed hostess _not_ taken off down the uncharted hall, with both of them obliged to follow or get left behind.  
  
The hallway led them to a pair of stainless steel doors, each with a neoclassical circular window. Ayumi proceeded on without pausing, holding one door open just long enough for Daisuke and Hikari to get through. They were met with quite a sight.  
  
While the entranceway had been filled with harshly cut corners and immodest, subdued blue light, the interior of the restaurant posed a great change. Everything that had once been rough and unrefined flowed easily into generalized smoothness of elements, spacious and inviting, and totally different from the biting welcome they had received from the cold clerk and his deceptive foyer. Vanilla white swept over every property with the consistency of spilled paint, if only overshadowed at times by a dabble of cream and speckling of gold . . . the carpeting, the wallpaper, even the tables and chairs that stood vanguard in the room. Lights now rested snugly in the ceiling, as opposed to their earlier independence, causing silverware and place settings to gleam. _Gold_ware may have been more appropriate a term, though, as it seemed anything _but_ would have ruined the color scheme that prevailed.  
  
Apprehension passed through Hikari for a moment, distracting Daisuke when he caught sight of the scruples that littered her pretty face. "Are you sure we're dressed appropriately?" she demurred, gesturing vaguely toward the fancy conditions.  
  
"Sure I'm sure, 'Kari-chan. They would've kicked us out by now if we weren't, right?" Daisuke shot back cheerfully, letting his satisfied gaze slip away from Hikari and back towards their hostess. "What the --"

* * *

"It's all physics, Daisuke-kun," Hikari affirmed after setting down her water glass, looking across the linen table-cover to a befuddled Motomiya. Lifting her petite hand, one fingertip idly circled the chilled rim in languid motions, wiping away the smudge of strawberry lip-gloss. She was still bemused, in a matter-of-fact sort of way, considering it must have been the second or third time she had explained it since being seated with her date. "I was suspicious when we first came in, but that cinched it."  
  
Left only to remain mute and bewildered, Daisuke poked his fork sparingly at the greens Ayumi had set before him. She returned only a short sometime after the first delivery in a whirl of eccentricity, Hikari's own appetizer-salad in hand, which was set down daintily despite her flouncy style. Incidentally spearing a particularly large leaf, he gestured toward their server as she darted off to another set of evening patrons.  
  
"Her hair is_ green_, and her clothes are _purple_. Explain how they got there from being blue before," Daisuke grumbled underneath his breath, shaking his head as he gulped down the iceberg lettuce, "because I didn't see her change clothes on us when we went through the doors."  
  
Hikari, patient as ever, paused to apply a spoonful of ranch dressing to her salad via the filled bowl by her plate. "It has to do with the lighting in this restaurant. And it's _cyan _and _magenta_, not green and purple."  
  
Displeased, Daisuke only stabbed mercilessly at slice of salted tomato.  
  
"Like I said: it's physics. White light has three colors, called primary colors, which bounce off things and go into your eye. They are red, green, and blue. These --"  
  
"Wait a second. I remember my rudimentary teachers tellin' me those primary colors were red, _yellow_, and blue," Daisuke said, arching a brow in earnest.  
  
"It's a common misconception. The most accepted arrangement, scientifically, is what I told you. Anyway, let's take Ayumi-san's hair for example. It's cyan. In white light, her hair is actually absorbing the color red . . . and reflecting back blue and green, which combines into cyan," Hikari clarified kindly despite the interruption. She smiled softly; "Are you with me so far?"  
  
She was met with Daisuke's blank stare.  
  
". . . I'll take that as a yes. So we're seeing cyan, at least when under white light. Now, if you place her under _blue _light, only the color blue is shining on her -- not red or green. There's no red to absorb, and no green to reflect . . . so, naturally, the only color reflected is the initial blue. That's why her hair looked blue beforehand, but cyan here. The same works with the magenta of her clothes, which I could explain if you wanted --"  
  
"How do you know all this, Hikari-chan?" Daisuke queried absently, voice distant. His awed brain could only manage one thing: _Wow_.  
  
Apparently caught off guard, Hikari busied herself by roughly shoving a fork-load of brussels sprouts into her mouth. She chewed noisily while her companion awaited an answer, despite his detachment, and swallowed. "Onii-chan is taking a beginner's course at his school. He showed me a few of the more interesting things. I just noticed the restaurant's theme offhandedly. After all, the bathrooms are lit with red light, and the dance floor with green. Coupled with the entryway, it leads up to white for the dining area. I would even guess that the reception guy from before is wearing some radical color that looks black in blue light."  
  
"Someone must've done his or her homework," Daisuke vocalized, although heedlessly wondered what inspired Hikari to ever memorize any of that. To him it was only scientific mumbo-jumbo that he knew he would be dumbfounded with at another time and place, a place still rather far away for someone who preferred to think he was living in a perpetual vacation from pencils and schoolbooks.  
  
She nodded sagely, picking at a slice of soft-boiled egg.  
  
Daisuke smiled quite suddenly.   
  
"Care to join me for a dance after dinner, Hikari-chan?"

* * *

Once accepting that it really was _Yagamii Hikari_ in his arms, resting _her _head on his shoulder, and _her _warm breath touching his neck in set intervals . . . Daisuke lapsed into a state of fancied contemplation. The dance-floor seemed notorious so far for playing only slow songs, with which couples could grow closer and twirl about in their own little worlds. It may have simply been the time of day -- the evening -- invoking twilight romances to celebrate their union in public rather than at an undisclosed spot, left to their own devices.  
  
Regardless, Daisuke was grateful for this act of predictable humanity; howbeit, his arms carefully drew Hikari closer into his protective embrace, eyes lidded and wandering, watching the myriad array of discolored persons that skirted his eyesight. It hadn't taken very long to get used to the atmosphere submerged in a static shade of viridian, as it was rather soothing, even despite the seasick color-coordinating job it did on worn items.  
  
Through the steady crescendos and diminuendos of a violin and viola duet interweaving their melodies together from the nearby orchestral setup, Daisuke perceived a low-key sigh as being released against his shoulder. Combined with this, Hikari's lithesome arms about his neck served only to pull her closer to him discreetly . . . he in turn granted with more opportunity to feel the welcome touch of her silky hair on his cheek, and breathe in that unidentifiable scent.  
  
It was the latter Daisuke started thinking about as his eyes slipped shut. The peppering of roses was still present, like a glaze, but carried a stark artificiality that made him suppose it to be a perfume. It luckily wasn't heavy enough to cause opaqueness to occur, which allowed Daisuke to easily nuzzle past its floral film to the "heart" of the matter.  
  
This new touch to his senses spun off a suggestion of something more personally ingrained into Hikari -- au natural, maybe musky -- that produced the inklings of an unbidden memory. Images danced across the inside of his eyelids from his mind's private projector, hazy and warm with the wash of sentiment that came attached . . .  
  
Ken smirked devilishly -- not the sort that used to chill blood, no -- past disheveled ribbons of dark topaz, laughing as Daisuke attempted another attack with the pillow taken from his nearby bed. He dodged nimbly of course, his reflexes were excellent after all, but that didn't deter the obstinate Motomiya in the least.  
  
Dawn was creeping in through the open slats of the bedroom's blinds, announcing the faint beginnings of a morning the two boys should have continued to sleep through. And they would have, had Daisuke not taken up the mischievous muse of awakening Ken with a mouthful of cotton and feathers.  
  
Ken hadn't been offended in the least -- quite the opposite, actually -- and Daisuke had been pummeled quite a number of times from a second pillow without getting his own chance to retaliate further. Ken now rubbed the sleep from his eyes, still disoriented in the early hours (Daisuke could have guessed), dictating what a perfect time to strike . . . he scowled when Ken slipped past the arc of feathery doom even then, yawning and unkempt.  
  
To his dismay, his best friend caught the pillow on the next pass. Over the curve of its surface he could see Ken smiling brightly, and a gentle voice sought as to whether or not it was okay that he take a shower. Daisuke nodded dumbly in response (Ken's smiles were still such a treasure no matter when they happened), eyes following his companion as he and pallid lemon-lime pajamas disappeared into an adjacent bathroom.  
  
He realized suddenly he had been holding his breath, and with an explosive sigh, Daisuke flopped facedown onto the futon Ken had slept on throughout the more peaceful night. His own pillow already usurped, Daisuke claimed Ken's and drew it to his face, breathing in as he settled on the comfortable mattress. The hints of sweat from Ken's scalp smelled sweet, imprinted into the fabric of the pillow's slip, causing a tingling current to run down Daisuke's spine, almost making him feel giddy.  
  
It was a guilty pleasure dozing there, taking deeper and deeper breaths to have Ken's essence envelop him completely, and only made more exciting by the fact the subject of his delight was bathing yards away from him, behind a shut door.  
  
"Ken . . ." Daisuke murmured yearningly into the softness of the pillow, letting his eyes creak open to check whether or not he would be discovered anytime soon.  
  
He realized, with painful acuteness, that it was only Hikari's green-splashed hair that he had been burrowing into, and that she had gone quite rigid in the past few moments. A cold sweat broke out all over him almost immediately: what was he _doing_, letting himself daydream like that? And more importantly: had he actually whispered _that _name into Hikari's ear?  
  
Shit, Daisuke thought, not at all irrationally. Shit shit shit.  
  
"_What_ --"  
  
Hikari would have continued had it not been for the renegade pair of dancers that joined the group almost immediately behind her. They plowed recklessly through a number of arm-locked partners, as erratic as a spinning top, and Hikari was no exception in being isolated from Daisuke, and knocked roughly to the floor. Addled for more than one reason, she only lifted her head with a saturnine slowness . . . and was met with the anxious and overly worried face of her date, and his warm hands on her shoulders.  
  
"Hikari-chan! Are you all right?"  
  
Relief washed over her, as a saccharine smile replaced her sullen frown.  
  
"I'm fine, Daisuke-kun . . ."

* * *

Even through the mild darkness of the theater, Daisuke could still make out the effeminate curves of Hikari's profile. Her forehead sloped gracefully to where he knew her eyes to be situated, and from there a delicate nose was highlighted in ever-fluctuating light from the movie screen. Rosebud lips followed soon after, and her chin swept into the elegant curve of her neck. Aside from her thin shoulders, what more she possessed was shrouded in darkness, leaving a lot to his imagination.  
  
Motomiya Daisuke was very, very confused.  
  
Sitting beside him in the relative privacy of the last stop of the evening was . . . well, a number of things, in his opinion: a saint, an angel, and the epitome of light. As risqué as it sounded, Daisuke _should _have wanted to corrupt that purity, _should _have wanted to do a lot of things. That afternoon, more_ questionable _conceit had been given to what he would have done if he had Hikari in the position he did now . . . left alone with him in a mostly lightless place, with barely any witnesses. Even he had carnality.  
  
And now?  
  
Truthfully, Daisuke was left disturbed by all that had transpired. He considered himself extremely lucky that Hikari had failed to pursue interrogation as to why he had said his best friend's name longingly in her ear. Maybe even that was an understatement. But even so, he was still puzzled. _Could _he like Ken in more than a platonic manner? Was it just his subconscious second-guessing his choice to date Hikari? Was he only a hormonal teenager that wanted anything that moved? The rhetorical questions weren't helping any, he reflected.  
  
Whatever the reason for them, he _needed _to bury the rising feelings with a renewed urgency. He wouldn't be able to stand it much longer, this much he was absolutely sure of, as already the light was playing on Hikari's hair to make it appear like a wave of oceanic plumes, and her soft features already resembled Ken's to begin with . . .  
  
Hikari started a moment later, and turned her head with hoisted brows. Daisuke was touching her cheek with a few fingertips, wistfully beginning to trace its smooth arc -- she smiled at him compassionately, and his dazed smile was his reply.  
  
The picture onscreen experienced a very sudden contrast of brightness, bathing the audience in an unearthly glow of wan lilac.  
  
Daisuke wasn't surprised in the least.  
  
Her eyes also went under the influence of that light, almost luminous to their own accord. They were violet.  
  
Groaning inwardly, Daisuke snaked his arms around Hikari, feeling the last of his judicious barriers crumble into a heap. He hoped that at least he could someday marry her, grow up to have 2.5 kids, and live a _normal _life with some nine-to-five job . . . but for now, just for now, he imagined her warmth, slightly parted lips, and flush skin under his hands to be Ken's . . . and he knew, somehow, as his head dipped closer, that he would never be able to love her; that he never loved her.  
  
He was prevented from reaching her lips when she firmly grabbed his shoulders, displaying strength he didn't remember her having. "Dai . . . Daisuke, what are you . . ."  
  
"Hush, Hikari-chan . . ." he whispered fiercely, one hand winding around her frame to rest dangerously on her thigh. She tensed further under his heated ministrations, and Daisuke was satisfied to find that the emotions tripping past her eyes were just as guilty, excited, and confused as his own undoubtedly were. He bent near to her again, but she still restrained him at a suitable distance to keep up her own distressed hiss.  
  
"Daisuke . . . please, listen to me for a moment, damn it . . . I need to tell you . . . I'm not . . ."  
  
Not interested? her consort pondered bitterly, although still fazed enough to loosen his grip on her. Join the club, Hikari-_chan_.  
  
"So are the two lovebirds _enjoying _themselves?"  
  
Their eyes snapped to the row of seats in front of them that ran parallel to their own, hearts pounding in their ears. Two arms were folded intentionally over the dark hump of one, and atop them rested a chin bearing one wickedly pleased smile. Takaishi Takeru only regarded them mockingly with lifted eyebrows, floppy hat nearly obscuring both that and his eyes. The illumination from the movie screen defined only certain portions of his features; he was positively demonic . . . in a blond Gilligan sort of way.  
  
Hikari was absolutely mortified, both boys noticed above all, judging by the expressive rainbow of colors that marked the bridge of her nose. Daisuke, however, was soon disinterested in the display, as there was more a vexing instance to take care of. Fingers were soon curled in Takeru's collar, and a furious face lined in raging fire canopied him, bearing down with all the intimidation Daisuke could muster without infracting on anyone else that may have been seated nearby.  
  
"Just _what _do you think you're doing?!"  
  
It may have been louder than he intended, but he found his anger righteous and justified. Hadn't he rolled over the thought that Takeru was going to follow him just that afternoon? It had been silly to believe then that he would be childish enough to actually _stalk _. . . Daisuke bore a fang under laborious breaths, ready to turn the blonde's face into a handful of goo.  
  
"Damn, Daisuke," Takeru groused, eyeing the fist now level with his nose warily, "you were all but assaulting her. Did you not hear her telling you to stop, or do you just get off on things like that?"  
  
"What? I wasn't doing anything like that! Right, Hikari-chan?" Daisuke implored, turning his head toward where she was sitting. Only the upturned seat and span of darkness greeted him, with a dire lacking of the brunette. Alarm spun through him. ". . . Hikari-chan?"  
  
Takeru rolled his eyes, using Daisuke's instant vulnerability to pull his shirt out of the threatening grasp. "Dumbass. She left almost as soon as you let her go, if you didn't see."  
  
Daisuke hadn't heard him -- he was already rushing out of the theater.  
  
He discovered Hikari a little ways outside, mumbling to herself and straightening her clothes under the guardianship of a streetlamp. All anger diffused out of him immediately, grounded with the sight of her aloneness, and he quietly approached her . . . removing the jacket he had donned all evening, he placed it over her shoulders with a featherweight touch.  
  
She looked to him, eyes strangely lost. "Daisuke-kun . . . "  
  
"I'm sorry, Hikari-chan. For everything."

* * *

The river rippled and undulated beneath them like a long band of black silk left to the merciless wind. The moon was beamless, clouds vanquished in the clarion night sky, lighting the area magically in the cold gold hue . . . leaving only the deepest crevices for the shadows to reign over. Starlight presented itself as shiny teardrops on the surface of the current, constantly broken and reassembled by its fast-moving flux, lending the impression of diamonds sewn crudely into a breeze-blown obsidian scarf.  
  
Daisuke rested his elbows on the omnipresent railing, pretending to be fascinated by the rusty brown leaves scattered here and there on the mostly deserted street. His peripheral vision, however, was used to closely monitor Hikari. She was neither smiling nor frowning, tense nor relaxed . . . only mimicking his actions, wide coat still draped around her, focused on the watery tumult below.  
  
"Daisuke-kun," Hikari said quietly, not turning.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"What have we learned about ourselves tonight?"

* * *

_"Nothing? It's just nothing?" Ken responds without hesitation, immersed by Daisuke's words. The intent he focuses on his best friend could be considered frosty, but the light in his eyes seems to obliterate all unfavorableness before it can really become apparent.  
  
It's all back again. The moonlight, the river, the arctic kiss on his cheek of a winter that is now past -- one that has haunted him for quite some time, a memory he shoves to the back of his mind over and over again. This time, however, things are different. He's living through it once more, this time completely, seeing his breath stain the air with its crystallized condensation, feeling the anxiety of standing so close to Ichijouji . . . yet so far away.  
  
"Yeah," he hears himself say behind a blockage in his throat. His fingers tighten around the railing. He is frustrated when he senses he's trembling, and is moreso when he can't locate the reason why. "It's just nothing."  
  
A hand touches his shoulder, while dark satin fleetingly touches his cheek. "You're _shaking_ . . ." is whispered into his ear.  
  
He begins to protest when Ken draws him into an embrace (to calm his frazzled nerves, of course), but is shushed by hesitant, yet warm fingertips. They begin to retreat soon after; Daisuke utters more of an objection _then . . . _so the prodigy deigns for them to stay where they are.  
  
It doesn't help at all when a few curious digits lift to curl in Daisuke's crenulated hair . . .  
  
He whimpers then, but Ken feels his actions are well-founded. There will never be another night quite like this one, or another chance this opportunistic. It is just after one of their routine sleepovers (this one at Daisuke's, as a majority are) that they stand there, on the night of the following day they always spend with each other; however, procedure has failed them.  
  
Ken has discovered a once unknown personal fixation of Daisuke's -- curling up with _his_ blankets and pillow while he is taking a shower, finding total bliss. Ken had finished a little early that morning, and had walked in unexpectedly. They haven't talked at all about it (only a blush for Ken and incoherent babbling about wasting hot water for Daisuke), so far.  
  
Resolute, Ken gazes at him with softhearted amethyst rhinestones, making his request endearingly: "Will you tell me what you were _really _going to say, now?"  
  
"Ken . . . I -- just . . ."  
  
(doki)  
  
"I feel . . ."  
  
(DOki)  
  
". . . you and I --"  
  
(DOKI)  
  
The tremendous, prolonged blat of a passing truck's horn nearly sends the both of them into the river out of severe surprise. The moment is shattered, and Daisuke receives a rapidly beating heart and near-painful feeling of disappointment for his trouble. As the leftover shards of the moment strike the concrete, tinkling, he and Ken begin giggling.  
  
He and Ken begin laughing._

* * *

  
"I learned that we're good friends," answered Daisuke, finally, after what seemed like an endless stretch of repose. "And that I'm very grateful."  
  
"You are?"  
  
"You bet. Tonight, I'm very grateful to you, Hikari-chan. I've realized something about myself because of you."  
  
At her wondering gaze, he only smiled enigmatically. "I don't need to chase you anymore."  
  
He continued before she could interject. "I know you probably hated tonight in its entirety. Thank you for at least giving me a chance, you know? It helped me realize who really resides in my heart."  
  
He kissed her cheek softly, in a way that spoke volumes: he was letting a piece of his childhood go. "Goodnight, Hikari-san."


	5. Left Is Right

**Author's notes:** Last chapter! Well, there will be an epilogue, but still! Wow, this story has come quite a long way, hasn't it? I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the others, all readers. And for anyone that has questions after this? My answer: suspension of belief. Thanks.  
  
**Disclaimer:** Yadda' yadda'.

  
* * *  
  
**O B L I V I O U S S I G N A L S  
**chapter four  
  
* * *  
  


_Everything you know is wrong  
Black is white, up is down and short is long  
And everything you used to think was so important  
Doesn't really matter anymore because the simple fact remains that  
Everything you know is wrong  
Just forget the words and sing along  
All you need to understand is  
Everything you know is wrong  
Everything you know is wrong_  
( "Everything You Know Is Wrong." Weird Al Yankovic. )   
  


* * *

He had decided to take the long way home. While he knew he might have to face both endearing -- _your very first date! _-- and suspicious -- _why are you so late?_ -- parents upon his return, Daisuke had concluded he needed a little time to himself after all that had transpired. He had wielded a certain spoon tonight without regret, sides serrated and face wide, one he had used to carve a gaping hole in his heart. At least, that's what it felt like. He knew it was very silly to feel so bad. All he was doing was letting go of old whispered lies he told himself in the dead of night to trick his heart. But the maw of pulsating red, raw and angry in his chest, was steadily being sewn together with a newfound comfort. The threads were copper, coursing with a new electric energy, binding torn sinew and flesh, filling the void with wholehearted hope. A fresh picture was being pasted on his heart, to be worn from then on.  
  
Daisuke grimaced, shedding his exterior of ignorant bliss for bleeding verity, just as he shed lifeless smiles for joyous tears. He had been freed from a prison of wool-covered eyes; no longer allowed himself to see only what he wanted to see. He appreciated, shade by shade, what circulated in those lavender eyes that used to so haunt him . . . Ken had been sad that afternoon. He hadn't been hiding his emotions at all -- not for Daisuke at least -- during their time together. Daisuke had merely written it off, unwilling to find Ken sorrowful over his choosing Hikari, proclaiming it Ken's mysterious countenance and nothing more.  
  
His tears tasted like sharp rain, every iota of saliferous liquid choosing to group there on the cusp of velveteen tiers, before rolling down his chin and finally dropping out of sight. Daisuke could almost hear the patter as they fell to the cobblestone walkway. Meanwhile, he was thinking absurdly for the moment: What did _his_ tears taste like? He paused. Bitter, but sweetened at the same time by his own characteristic body chemistry, splashed like holy water over the flawless white of his pillow each night.  
  
Daisuke felt sick to his stomach, imagining a magnified Ken blessing his bedding in such a way, and his arms slipped around his abdomen tightly. He was seated on a modest bench in the neighborhood park, a few blocks from the apartment complex he should have been safely tucked into. The city's lights twinkled off the water from a nearby granite fountain, reminding Daisuke of forgotten summer fireflies. This made him smile slightly, and the edge of his tears became clearer without lips to prevent entry to his mouth.  
  
Summer was always a time of change. Things were so much more intense than other seasons . . . sometimes the brittle string of reality broke, while sometimes it only bolstered itself by adding more lines. Something had broken tonight, Daisuke was sure, and yet it ironically helped the separate pieces become twine. The loom was being completed. Daisuke felt a sudden homesickness, then the urge to call Ken and ask whether or not he would like to have a sleepover, if he so pleased. Maybe he'd tell Ken about what had happened. Maybe he'd never tell Ken. Either way, he --  
  
"_DAISUKE!_"  
  
He didn't even need to strain to hear the furious slap of shoes against the stones under his own placid feet. There was something vaguely familiar about the voice, and it was only when he turned his head that he saw the reason why. Sketched with sequestered light from a few lanterns strung on thick wires around the park, Hikari all but barreled toward him. It was only after she stopped that Daisuke finally felt surprised by this, seeing her flush and out of breath, a deep rose tint on her cheeks, and wearing entirely different clothes.  
  
"I've been looking for you everywhere --"  
  
"I'm sorry, Hikari-san," Daisuke grinned jokingly, "it's too late for you to come back and grovel. I really have someone else, in fact, it's --"  
  
"_KEN!!_" Hikari exploded without explanation or warning, motioning wildly with equally as crazy eyes, lip curled up in a twisted rendition of a snarl. The look did not suit her. It nearly scared Daisuke.  
  
He began like this: "I'm sorry, I just --"  
  
And she finished for him: "-- CAN'T BELIEVE YOU TWO!"  
  
"Huh?" Daisuke said, blinking.  
  
"I can't believe you two would play such a sick joke on me! Was it his idea or yours, Daisuke? Where is he? I'll just wrap my hands around his throat, and . . ." Her words faded in a flurry of very elaborate hand gestures that left Daisuke even more confused, although she sounded less homicidal.  
  
"What are you _talking _about? You were with me the entire night, don't you remember?" Daisuke raised his voice accordingly, feeling defensive about Ken due to Hikari's threats.  
  
"I was in a _closet _all night, Daisuke! Or did you fail to remember _that _part of your plan? Ken seemed pretty knowledgeable when he --"  
  
Daisuke wasn't listening anymore. He had noticed what was tied around her neck. It was a gag, and with it, the remains of a few tattered lengths of silken thread that trailed from various parts of her body. He felt an acute pain in the center of his forehead, and ice began to creep up his spinal column.  
  
Ken's eyes burned with sorrow. "Give her my regards," he said emotionlessly, staring outward so intensely, fingers on his wrist. The frantic voice (no, _two _voices) from behind Hikari's door, rising and falling like an ocean's waves. The hurt yelp and slam of a window. Hikari's tentative smile upon revealing herself. Not speaking until they reached the restaurant, hesitant and afraid. Her tension upon being touched, and eventual relaxing (which Daisuke _knew _was unreal). Her uncharacteristic doubt and worry. Her extensive knowledge and prim attitude, and extreme patience that she never had for him. Her agitation over his murmuring of another's name, yet sudden disregard or forgetfulness. How she looked in the theater, and . . . "I need to tell you . . ." echoing in the darkness, "I'm not . . ." Her lost eyes, hazy and hurt. A soccer ball at her feet. Green on her flesh, the sea in her hair, the scent of roses and a pillow's musk. A final moonlight conversation, dreamy, paralleled to a winter reality.  
  
Daisuke sucked in a gasp, even as Hikari was still ranting. "Hikari-san!"  
  
"What?" she shouted back nastily, growling.  
  
"Does Taichi-kun take physics?"  
  
"What the HELL does that have to do with anything?!"  
  
"Just answer me!"  
  
"No, no he doesn't --"  
  
The world came to a standstill, teetered for a few moments . . . and finally crashed.

* * *

_  
Ichijouji._  
  
_I thought I . . . I thought we . . .  
  
We were best friends, you jackass._  
  
_How could you do that to me? How could you just plunge your hand right through my chest to clutch and claw at my heart . . . to rip it out and drop it to the ground, to step on it as though it were nothing . . .  
  
How!?_  
_  
Well, you bet your ass I'm going to find out. You're going to give me a fucking explanation whether you want to talk or not. I'm almost to your apartment complex. _ I'm crying_, you moron . . . you made me cry.  
  
I'll make you cry. I'll . . . I'll, I don't know what. After all we've done together . . .  
  
I hate you. I hate you I hate you I hateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyou . . .  
  
. . . so why does it hurt this bad?  
  
Was it all just a joke to you -- is that it? Did you like playing with my heart?  
  
I can't believe . . . you toyed with my emotions the entire time. You were just blinding me, playing this elaborate joke on me . . . so you could laugh at me from behind your hands because of my liking Hikari, no words needed . . .  
  
Well, I'm going to make sure you suffer now.  
  
I'm almost there, Ken-chan._   
  


* * owari * *


	6. Epilogue

* * *  
  


_I've hidden a note  
It's pressed between pages  
That you've marked to find your way back  
It says, "Does he ever get the girl?"  
But what if the pages stay pressed  
The chapters unfinished  
The stories too dull to unfold?  
Does he ever get the girl?_  
( "This Ruined Puzzle." Dashboard Confessional. )

  
* * *

_I'm almost there, Ken-chan._

  
* * *

The shampoo bottle's label proscribes I apply between a dime and a quarter sized amount of its contents to the palm of my hand, depending on the length of my hair. I usually transgress that system with awful disregard -- tonight is no exception -- and spit-polished amber jewels pool on my skin without proper supervision. The mercurial tendency of the star-speckled puddle gives me only one choice. I evenly spread it through my hair, careful to coat each tendril from root to tip and back again thrice, deft and precise, allowing no droplet to slip through my fingers and be lost in the drain. The label also speaks of a thorough lathering. I let set the shampoo's suds, feeling the thrum of a warm waterfall on my skin, while all but leaning against the tiled walls as I pause for a few moments. Then, gingerly, I submerge my head into the showerhead's rainstorm.  
  
Darkness engulfs me, eyelids shut to fend off the stinging mixture of acrid soap and water. It all begins to dwindle away, hair already adhesive to my skin with the consequences of being swamped beforehand. I wonder if my hair, moderately long in my opinion, ever felt itself suffocating under the rich froth that smelled of Marigold Flowers, Angelica, and Thyme in Mountain Spring Water (according to the bottle's tag). Personally, its scent is rather fruity to me. Nonetheless, I like it. Does that say anything about me?  
  
And then I wonder if I'm not the one suffocating under the oppressive perfume while it grows sticky in the humid climate of the bath. Me. Ichijouji Ken (ha-ha). I expect it will smother me like a blanket if I'm not cautious. Claustrophobia is beginning to set in, I think. Gathering my wits, I sweep long fingers through what foam remains in my hair, opening my eyes if only to peek at the brown rivers that wind over my shoulders, intensified by my white skin. The dye was very reliable; amazing how a name brand, twenty-four hour, store-bought dye could turn an inky sapphire into a close cousin of milk chocolate. I had debated over that and a wig, but ended up choosing the former. I guess I'm self-conscious about having something entirely cover my head.  
  
My hand swims through the glittering spray of water droplets for another bottle by my feet, this one unmarked, but beige in hue. I already know it to be conditioner. I arrange all of the bottles in chronological order -- body wash, shampoo, conditioner, and hair-shine -- to prevent any mishaps. I'm meticulous like that. A downright perfectionist. I skip the hair-shine tonight. I don't feel very bright right now. The crystalline shower knobs are turned a full three-sixty degrees shortly after, and I'm allowed exit from the steaming jungle of tile tree trunks and monolithic plant-life.  
  
Wormmon is waiting for me when I finally emerge from the bathroom, towel secure around my waist and hair eking an occasional driblet of water. He watches solemnly as I shuffle through the mundane ritual I proceed through almost every night: combing my hair, staring vacantly into a mirror, brushing my teeth . . . however, one detail slips away from the norm. Rather than my Tamachi uniform draped over my chair, awaiting a night in the laundry bin, there is a much more flamboyant costume. Tight jeans, salty shirt, plastered pinks, whites, and reds, jewelry resting nearby . . .  
  
I suddenly feel much like I'm going to throw up, and I send a hand to steady myself on the closest object -- my desk. Wormmon, still attentive as ever, peers at me coolly with flawless obsidian ovals from his perch on my dresser.  
  
"Ken-chan . . ." he begins with kind concern, and I just _know _he's going to say it. I just know it . . . so why's it taking him so long? Why is -- "How'd it go?"  
  
I'm not sure how I must look right now, while somewhat hunched inward due to the spasms in my stomach, my hair wet and still mussed despite brushing it, and my make-up cleaned from my face (eyeliner I have always delved in; the gloss, blush, and other items I acquired from my mother, much to her confusion). I prompt an unstable smile to appear, making the muscles of my cheeks sting.  
  
"He doesn't want Hikari."  
  
"Oh?" Keen interest. Wormmon isn't suited to look predatory . . .  
  
". . . he doesn't want_ me_ either, Wormmon."  
  
"But --"  
  
"I just know this, okay? It's probably someone like _Miyako_ . . . at least Hikari had a slight fashion sense. I would not _look _at Miyako's clothes if I had to, much less wear them," I say, realizing I'm beginning to ramble uncontrollably. I don't quite care, and my world skews again, causing me to hold on tightly to the desk's edge.  
  
". . . I told you to wear the leather pants, Ken-chan."  
  
Even that doesn't illicit laughter from me. A shudder passes down my spine, causing my insides to clench once more. "Our date was rather nice, though. He didn't suspect a thing. It's the closest I'll ever get . . ."  
  
"No regrets?"  
  
"I guess not. Maybe. I'm sorry for pushing you out the window when Daisuke knocked, though . . . I panicked."  
  
Wormmon smiles with his eyes. "That's all right. I landed in some soft bushes."  
  
I warily reach out toward the pair of sparkling accessories that had accompanied me on my rendezvous. The barrettes are scarcely noticeable in the palm of my hand, their weight barely a few grams. The multifaceted diamonds on the surface flare when tilted just so, sending a wave of white fire up and down the length.  
  
"Hikari will tell Daisuke eventually," Wormmon informs me, as if I didn't already know.  
  
"Unless she already told him."  
  
That, however, isn't _my _reply.  
  
I'm still somehow mesmerized by the flashing jewels even as I turn around, strangely candid with the intrusion of a third party member. I feel the cold pit of fear in my stomach detachedly, as though I had been expecting this sudden confrontation from the start. I hadn't, assuredly; had I not felt so distant, I probably would have soiled myself, especially after looking into his eyes.  
  
Daisuke is absolutely feral, one hand pressing against the doorframe -- he had been running the entire way here from the subway station. My mother must have let him in. I look down toward the hair adjuncts with unruffled interest, their scintillation also undisturbed, and his eyes follow mine for a moment. I suppose that is the last straw for him -- his anger is righteous, I tell myself -- as both barrettes are commandeered. The door slams shut, and I can hear my mother warning for the both of us to play nice from an adjacent room. With the lacking of the calming gems, I noticeably begin backing toward the wall opposite of Daisuke. Wormmon has fled, maybe; does he want us to work this out for ourselves, or some shit like that?  
  
He looks up at me sharply, his hand leaving its support. I'm an ether-drenched butterfly ready for the pinning board. His eyes are intoxicating enough, and the way he wields those pointed jewelry pieces . . .  
  
"Salutations, Daisuke-kun," I say with a plastered smile, my inflection ten times lighter than normal. "What brought you to visit me at this hour?"  
  
I decide that probably wasn't the best approach after being shoved against the wall I was trying to blend into, his hands like hot vices over my wrists. The barrettes fall, neglected, to the carpeting below.  
  
His voice is dangerously low. "You had better _damn_ well know why I'm here, Ichijouji."  
  
"You mean you aren't here to visit your best friend for fun?"  
  
I really ought to keep my mouth shut. My heartbeat races, while the adrenaline induced into my system is somehow transforming me into a bona fide smart-ass. Daisuke never took a penchant towards those that flaunted the truth before his eyes like a bullfighter's banner, and I suppose in his state of mind I am no exception to aggravating him. I also suppose aggravating him in his state of mind is a bad thing, because he looks like he's ready to spontaneously combust on the spot.  
  
"Best friend? BEST FRIEND?!"  
  
I realize with exasperation I had meant to lay my head upon my pillow tonight with the bittersweet image of Daisuke kissing my -- "Hikari's" -- cheek, and fading into the pseudo-romantic night. Now I will have to remember how sienna eyes burn with unchecked rage that swells like a moon-guided tide, shadows of hurt and confusion lurking as only silhouettes behind the veil of towering flames. I'm not even sure if I _will_ be given the benefit of slumber in later hours. Judging by how things have fared so far, I'll be lucky to emerge from this meeting unscathed.  
  
I meant to catch a frozen star in my moonbeam net, not its imminent supernova. I only wanted that one chance to be in the shoes -- or heels, really -- of the lucky one he had fallen for, to relish in his presence without restraint, and to find myself submerged and nearly drowning in all that is _Motomiya_. No one appreciates him as much as I do. Of all people, Hikari never even came close. She only agreed to his inquiry for a date out of pity and an underlying principle of maliciousness that always came with her sugar-sweetened smile. I saw right through her little deception the afternoon Daisuke told all of us of his apparent good fortune . . .  
  
"I had to protect you," I manage to choke out, trying not to meet his eyes.  
  
He goggles at me, and it isn't too long before I feel his grip tighten considerably, causing a rubying of my skin around his bronze fingers, displaying where the blood is being coerced to. It is not painful, although the entire situation still disturbs me greatly, as the wildness in his eyes only joins forcers with dark mania.  
  
"_PROTECT ME?!_"  
  
It doesn't help that he's screaming right at me, either. I try to sound as soothing as possible, my voice falling a few notches in the process: "Daisuke-kun, listen . . . she was just laughing at you -- Hikari was. She didn't actually care enough about you to _really_ want to go on that date."  
  
"Don't you think I already know that, Ken?"  
  
That surprises me. The pain in his eyes seems magnified all of the sudden, and I can easily feel it as his hands begin to lose their hold on me. My own guise is querying enough for Daisuke, because moments later his voice is rolling forth again, broken by holes in which he has to take a gasp; most surprisingly of all is when his arms suddenly draw around me, almost begging for comfort from me.  
  
"I -- I realized that in the middle of the date, that I didn't mean anything real to her. There was always someone else that was there for me, and -- and I never really _loved _her . . . she was just around, and eligible, and made reason for a decent chase to keep my mind strayed from who I _really _wanted . . ."  
  
A rather vibrant coloring of my cheeks is beginning to form by this time, as Daisuke sniffles and snuffles against my bare shoulder (and I'm suddenly very glad my towel is tightly wrapped around my waist). I detect a shudder passing through him as I bring my hand to the back of his neck, carefully massaging from there on downward as I attempt comforting murmurs in his closest ear.  
  
"But you see, Daisuke? I was so hoping that perhaps you would discover someone else while on that date, somehow who genuinely cared for you . . ."  
  
He cants his head; his eyes focus on mine despite the awkward angle, and there is a resilience of gold in the murky brown that I always delight in picking out.  
  
"So why did you do it, Ken? Why did you take Hikari's place?"  
  
I repeat myself from earlier. "To protect you."  
  
Confusion knits his brows together. "No, don't give me that shit. I would have still realized, maybe a little later than sooner, that there was someone else for me. _Why did you take Hikari's place?_"  
  
I don't say anything at first. How can I explain to him that while I felt myself righteous to be playing stand-in for a fiendish Yagamii, I was also privately enjoying the one and only chance I had at ever being able to be intimate with him? Given, as soon as things turned rather precarious in the theater, my conscience finally came around and gave me a perfectly rational dose of _sanity_, in which I almost admitted to the deception right then and there.  
  
"Who do you truly love?" I whisper, my eyes never faltering in light of his.  
  
"You."  
  
I start nodding out of complete comprehension, as if the answer makes perfect sense to me given all of the strange occurrences the night had brought. I'm in a haze, and there is only Daisuke as a beacon; that beautiful star I thought would be struggling against my net is now contentedly remaining where he is.  
  
My head dips down -- I need to express so much to him, to let him_ know_ -- after I finally regain control of my central nervous system (taken from me by shock), and there is then only a rainbow of electricity behind my closed eyes as my lips touch his. Sparks, fireworks, mayhem of the heart. And it only intensifies with Daisuke's desperation entering the picture; he misses not a beat before responding; urgency I never knew he possessed about anything. He's insistent, but gentle, and I know I'm being dipped into a capricious dream that threatens to tear me in two as my lungs are so deliciously deprived of oxygen.  
  
And then, suddenly, we disengage -- a mutual conclusion: his heart is pounding in sync to mine and I can _feel _it -- right then and there. The tension in our legs drains away to leave them filled with jelly, allowing us to collapse unceremoniously in a heap against the wall. It all seems caught in slow motion for a little while, both of us trying to fill ourselves with much needed air, unblinking russet peels and violet petals sprinkled into the swirling lucent reality as it comes crashing down upon us in droves like the downpour from a cascade. Everything reaches its pith and there is no challenge to the fact that this is the _right _answer to our equation, and we both know it.  
  
"Next time we go on a date, Ken," Daisuke drawls almost proudly after a time, a smile edging onto his lips for the punch-line, "you _should_ wear leather pants."  
  
I laugh: "You know, I've been sending signals to you about my feelings for a long time, Daisuke."  
  
"I guess I was just oblivious."  
  
"That sounds interesting: obvious signals oblivious to you; oblivious signals?"  
  
"You talk too much, Ken."  
  
"What would you rather me do?"  
  
Daisuke only grins.  
  
. . . and I wish I was wearing more than just a towel.


End file.
